In this sleep there was a flower. I saw a blue flower, the rose on the crest. But it wasn't a real flower. No, it was a glass flower.

She said she liked roses.

She said she liked them even with the thorns.

She said it was a beauty that pricked people to teach them that it was only a rose and nothing else. But she cannot help but get caught up in what people defined the rose, the symbol that a rose stood for.

She said too that she liked fairytales.

So she began thinking of her life as a fairytale. And someone, somewhere, will hear this plea and save her from her delusional powerlessness. Yet, she'd refuse the help given even of those whose hearts were captivated by her strange feigned innocence, caused by her ignorant self - the person she thought she wanted to be.

She said that she was insane.

People are driven to tears because of her. They don't know what to think of her, like she doesn't know what to think of herself.

So she stays, cocooned in her shell. A glass flower whose petals shatter so easily, yet grow so fast. Even engulfing the broken pieces, bringing them closer to the sleeping one inside.

She is aware of her present state, yet cannot do anything about it. Her world had gone out of control and she let it. Now it wants to protect her forever, regardless of the outside world and it's whims.


She knows she is weak and wants to be protected.

She knows she can be strong and resilient.

She knows she is cowardly.

She's aware of her delusional self.

She's aware that she rationalizes a lot.


And she just realized that, well, she's made herself incapable of feeling.

It sounds so silly.

She knows that this is only a story.

Don't worry, it is.